A Thousand Masks for Sherlock Holmes
by Liena67
Summary: Small one-Shot Adlock that it's positioned at the beginning of the fourth series. Sherlock does not like the festivities and the carnival is one of those who loves less but despite himself is forced to participate in a masquerade ball. Perhaps it will be less tedious than he imagined. Original wrote in italian so forgive the style and any mistakes but I hope you like it.


It's not possible. It's paradoxical, almost inhuman, incomprehensible, it escapes any human logic. Among all the useless parties that Sherlock can't stand, the carnival is the one that least understands. Why disguise yourself when people do nothing else in their lives? No one ever appears as what really is in his soul. And he knows something about it, because he just has to look at some small details to notice, for example, that the man walking along the sidewalk of Baker Street under his window, holding an arm around a woman's waist, is not really in love of that woman as he wants to appear. The old woman who crosses the street to the post office, wrapped in an elegant coat, is not as affluent as she wants to appear. He could spend the whole day at the window and would only observe men and women who wear masks to look like they are not and how they might aspire to be. That's why being forced to attend the masked gala dinner for him is almost a torture. But he has no choice. One of the "rats" his homeless friends are keeping an eye on for him will be at that dinner and he doesn't want to lose sight of him. Within such an exclusive event none of his loyal followers could certainly enter. Since he has again landed on British soil, after just five minutes of exile following the death of Magnussen, his mind is focused only and solely in an attempt to perceive that particular movement of the canvas that could initiate the game. That _"I missed you"_ aired on all frequencies of the country, with the voice and the face of Moriarty, still has to find meaning.

"Sherlock darling stop thinking about it and worry... it's just a party... it can't be worse than having been the godfather to our Rosie" Mary's ironic and sweet voice distracts him and he turns to the woman who is cradling her daughter to make her back to sleep.

"What makes you think I'm worried?" He asks, knowing that she's right. It's not just the boredom of a useless party that annoys him and this clever and perceptive woman, who is John's wife, seems to have understood it.

"Everything about you tells me... from the fact that you are ready for at least half an hour, even if the party starts in three hours and it will take you only twenty minutes to get there" Mary answers, placing Rosie in the crib now that seems to have to sleep.

"But we should talk about the fact that it's a fancy dress... but you're just wearing a tuxedo... do you think you'll go unnoticed if you're the only one not in costume?" she adds giggling.

"There is no better disguise than what you wear every day. I don't intend to hide. My presence at the party has been made known for some time. If I disguise myself and make myself unrecognizable, the "rat" I am following will be in constant alarm and will hardly make hazardous moves. On the contrary, if I make clear my presence, he will think to have everything under control and it will be at that moment that he will make some mistakes" says Sherlock confidently, going to sit in his chair.

"And above all, you will not be uncomfortable wearing a costume... something must have happened to you as a child during a carnival party to make you hate it so much" Mary tells him without cradling Rosie for fear that she will wake up again. That child, the woman thinks, is making her lose her sleep, but she would prefer not to sleep any longer in exchange for even a minute holding her in her arms.

At that moment John enters the apartment he has reached after closing the clinic.

"John, please tell your wife to stop being a psychologist... if I wanted one I would go to your" Sherlock tells him with an apparent serious tone.

"And when ever Mary does what I tell her" replies the friend giggling and then hugging his wife and leave a tender kiss on the forehead of his daughter who sleeps in the cradle.

"I never imagine... after all she's an intelligent woman...why she should never listen to you".

"I've already hit your head Sherlock once... I could even decide to punch you," John replies, shaking his head but Sherlock doesn't hear him anymore. Absentmindedly he observes the photos of the "rat" placed on the table in front of him and reads from his phone all the most disparate news that finds on the network about the events in the entire country. Sooner or later the game will start and he isn't waiting for anything else.

As he imagined the gala dinner in costume is an embarrassing and pathetic agglomeration of banality, superficiality, ostentation and boredom, profound and intolerable boredom. At the suggestion of Mary, at the end Sherlock wore at least a simple black mask with a Venetian style, used by at least thirty men in the room, but which makes a particular effect on him, highlighting his eyes that tonight are of a particular intense blue. The tuxedo does nothing but enhance his innate aristocratic elegance and therefore, even with a mask, he doesn't go unnoticed and anyone who wants to identify him would know how to do it. The positive thing about wearing a mask like that, is that it allows you to look everywhere without being clear where your gaze is placed. It is easy to keep the movements of his man under control without being observed. But his "rat" tonight seems more interested in luring all the women in the room than doing something shady or ambiguous. And from how he moves Sherlock realizes that he must have started drinking well before the party begins. Sighing he understands the uselessness of his presence tonight, but can't leave after such a short time. He would be suspicious and he doesn't want to put anyone on alert. The "rats" dance when they feel safe from the claws of a cat. Therefore forced in spite of himself to stay at the party, without losing sight of his man, he decides to pass the time analyzing the present. The Othello who now takes wine for example is definitely the Spanish ambassador. Curious that he has dressed up for Othello considering that his wife, a rather chaste Marie Antoinette, has a story with the Secretary of State, a decidedly lascivious cardinal. While the Harlequin who dances like a possessed man in the middle of the room between couples of all kinds, should leave his wife, a shy peasant sitting at a table, for the musketeer with whom he exchanges glances that can escape everyone except at him.

Sherlock goes on for at least ten minutes, literally scanning almost every person until his eyes rest on a woman across the hall. She wears a particular costume that looks almost like a second skin. The color is blue with black stripes that look almost like a tiger's coat. She has a long tail, dark hair loose on the shoulders, big and pointed ears, the face completely painted blue and the eyes, probably thanks to some contact lenses, are yellow like those of a cat. Sherlock does't go to the cinema so he does't know that this is the representation of an Avatar character but it is not the disguise that hits him. The woman is looking at him and doesn't take her eyes off him. There is something familiar about her and when he sees her move on high heels of strictly blue shoes, he is sure it is her. The Woman. What are she doing in London? It's too dangerous for her right now. There are people who still want her death. Sherlock watches her walk along the walls on the left side of the room, skirting the group of people who filled the center for dancing. And he can't help but feel that inner warmth, that irregular beat, which he feels every time she has appeared in his mental palace, in his thoughts, in his memories, or simply in one of the many messages he receives from her. With a long sigh Sherlock regains control of his heart and slowly, after checking that his man is now sleeping deeply on a chair with more alcohol than blood in the body, he sets off to meet her.

Irene walks down the hall knowing that the looks of admiration that normally causes are tonight mitigated by the type of costume she has chosen. In a gala dinner like this her costume is clearly eccentric, decidedly over the top, deliberately sensual to the limit of the erotic and everyone feels too observed to approach or even follow her with her gaze. The best way to hide is to make yourself tremendously flashy in a context where nobody wants to be in the spotlight. In the last few months she has hidden herself in Europe, approaching London without ever returning, passing from one alias to another, who have nothing in common with her. A rich and chaste young widow, a shy daughter of diplomats, a simple librarian on holiday. But right now, under that blue costume that looks like a second skin, finally she feels again as Irene Adler, the Dominatrix, The Woman, the feline that can bite you at any moment and that craves her prey with which for months and years is playing. And her prey is there, in front of her still on the other side of the room but closer and closer. In reality, at this moment Irene's heart has begun to run, as happens to those very rare times that Sherlock decides to answer one of her many messages. In fact, one asks who between them is the prey and who the predator. Maybe they are both and that's why she feels this strong bond with him. And it is also the reason why, after months of that rose sent to his hospital room, she decided that it was time to come back, even for a few hours. Sherlock's attendance at this masquerade party was too good a chance to get away with it.

Sherlock stops just two steps from her and behind the mask his blue eyes are fixed in those with the strange yellow color of her. He wonders what color at the moment are really hers, if clear or that deep and intense blue that he often remembers in his mind.

"It's a mistake," he says simply in such low tone that she can hardly hear it.

"Mistakes make life less monotonous," she replies in the same tone. Sherlock sighs and looks around but no one seems to look after them luckily. He nods towards a door on their left and without another word opens it and both disappear from the hall. Once the door is closed, the chaotic and cacophonic clamor of the hall seems almost to disappear and they find themselves in a small studio. Sherlock walks away from the door and approaches the window to control that nobody observes them from the terrace. Then he closes the curtains and turns to Irene, taking off his mask.

"The mistakes are paid... if the coverage skips, death could be decidedly more boring," he says trying to get a detached tone.

"There are not yet so many people wanting my head... and there are some risks that are worth taking" Irene replies, taking a few steps closer.

"It's not logical... and it's dangerous... it's not yet time to go back to London freely. And for what? No business can be more important than your life" Sherlock still tells her, now feeling her perfume that his nose does not seem to have forgotten.

"It's not for business that I'm back, and anyway it's just a few hours. I'll start again soon" Irene replies, only one step away from him.

"Well, better this way" are the only words Sherlock can say because feeling her so close is clouding his thoughts. Definitely a dangerous woman for him.

"Are you worried about me Sherlock?" Irene asks, tilting her head slightly in her captivating way of smiling.

"Miss Adler... I would like to avoid that all the effort to save your life years ago is now nullified by... what? Melancholy of London?" Sherlock asks, returning to control his mind and above all his breathing.

"Mr. Holmes... it's not the melancholy of London that brought me here tonight " Irene answers, biting just a lip "I just wanted to welcome you back after your brief exile... as I imagine wants to do every good English citizen" she adds then in a whisper and before he can react, she puts her hands on his chest and gets up on tiptoe with her lips gently touching his. Despite that light kiss, Sherlock is invaded by billions of feelings that almost overwhelm him. He looks at her still feeling her hands resting on him but doesn't move a muscle calling on his whole being to keep control. The hall is still full of people. There are still too many people who would like her death and out there is an important game to play and a new spider to flush out. This is not the time to indulge in the thoughts and feelings that this woman can provoke in him.

Irene looks at him and seems to have understood all his thoughts. Slowly she withdraws her hands and takes a step away from him.

"Well... now I can leave London then" she says with a last smile before turning and heading towards the door.

"Irene" Sherlock's voice stops her when she already has her hand on the door handle and feeling called by name for the first time is so intimate as to make her shiver, perhaps even louder than the slight kiss from before.

"Yes Sherlock" she tells him turning slightly towards him.

"I suppose you will not stop sending me messages even if I asked you, isn't it?"

"You know me... you know I always do what I want to do".

"I know... then wait to be safe again before you send one".

Irene looks at him and smiles at him. She doesn't need to answer. She knows that this is his way of telling her that he cares about her and that's the best he can give her, at least for now. She opens the door and, without looking back, disappears into the hall full of people.

Sherlock stays still in the study near the window until he sees the blue of his costume disappear completely. With a long sigh he puts the mask back on and slowly returns to the room and all those stupid people who dance seem to him even more banal.

Hours later he finally returns to his apartment in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is already sleeping and silently he climbs the stairs. Entered the living room he closes the door behind him throwing the mask in the basket. Then he goes to the bedroom starting to take off his jacket that carefully arranges in the closet. He leaves the phone on the bedside table and goes to the bathroom. At that moment a sound, that sound, announces the arrival of a message of her. He goes back and gets the phone to read it.

 **The Woman:** until next time Sherlock

Sherlock smiles while reading "until next time Irene" murmurs, but does not answer, as always, moreover, he puts the phone back on the night table closing his eyes and thinks that right now he needs a long cold shower and maybe not It will do.


End file.
